The Vow
The Vow is a short story that takes place years after One Final Effort. Story Foreword Let us regale the tale of the Timeless Siege, Long ago when the water ran clean, where the air was fresh and the stars shone bright... back to the time where culture ran vibrant, where there was talk of happiness and of joy, where our neighbours welcomed us with open arms as we did them... there was a thing called Peace. Peace was a kind testament of what we were before, It was the light that warmed our lands, which caused fruits to grow and which guided us from the sands to the mountain peaks. It was calmness and charity, as free as those who fly in the sky or those who sail across the ocean. It is what allowed us to sleep with our backs away from the wall, and without daggers in our grip. Peace however, is as fragile as glass, There stood our enemy in the far South. Lo, they were the antithesis of the Peace we learned to love and cherish. For they were War, they were the Lykos Kinsman. Hunters and Wolves who relied on their strength and prowess in War. Cunning strategists and deceitful manipulators who tore our lands from under our feet, set us out as refugees or as Martyrs. These were Warmongers, Warmongers who extinguished the light that warmed our worlds, to leave us in the bitter cold that killed our fruits and secluded us to shelters to plea and cry. They were violence and thieves, and cast the chains of oppression on us to make us slaves to their will, casting us in caves to never again see the light. They are the reason we sleep with our backs to the wall, with daggers in our grip. They should have destroyed us, Though the Warmongers stood strong, stood fierce and violent, they did not have the Will which we are imbued with. They did not have the dedication to what is Right and Truth as we did, as they turned their backs to false beliefs to support what Wrongs and Lies they threatened to spread. Though they pushed us back, we pushed back harder, until eventually they broke. For War can be broken too, But for as sinister as the Warmongers were, they had one last design. Though we triumphed to bring back our homes and lands, to enjoy the sun and the water, the heat and the Light, the cunning Lykos plotted to take even this away from us. They Burned our homes with their Toxin, Poisoned our crops and Polluted our water. Cast dark Smoke into the skies, to steal from us our Light. This is the world we live in now, Because of the jealousy, of an entire Race. Across the Poisoned Waters The Supercapitol, Yermo, Exusia... Three days since War's end... Polemistis was dead. After days of snow and rain, the cold and ruined landscape was greeted once more with the bright sun from the east. Rubble from broken streets and fallen towers scattered across the capital Yermo; remnants of the beautiful architecture that once graced the area. The burning fires that had consumed many parts of the capital had begun to die, limiting the black smoke they breathed into air. The effects of this battle had started to fade, as the clashing of blades and the firing of rifles seemed to fall much quieter than it had in the beginning. Participants on either side of the conflict still fought in many areas around Yermo, but to those who heard of the Ultra Director's demise—they were taken by silence, whether Republic or Unity. Perhaps there were a few that fought on past the news, but what was the point if there was no more war to fight? Honour? Nada. The Supercapitol had long been claimed by the Unity, the tall symbol of the Republic's might and power turned into the blade of its end. The remnant forces have long been scattered from the area, whether fled by foot or executed as example. Walking up the wide pearl-white steps to the entrance of the Supercapitol, there rested several bodies on display. Honour Guards, Custodians, a few of the old Directors... and around their necks rested signs written in Lykos and Matoran. Failure. Manipulator. Conspirer. Traitor. As the Commander approached the steps, he felt a wave of weapons being drawn and raised against him and his troops, but they made no similar movement. He stepped forward as his army stopped behind him, as he turned his head toward a series of differently shaped figures and beings. Whether Toa or Vortixx, Steltian or Matoran, none stood a head taller than the one who stood at the head of them. A Lykos. A Warmaster. "I see you come with an army." The Warmaster spoke, "I thought I made it clear your army should be dead." "I see," the Commander replied, "but should I be greeted with an army as well? This is our tradition." "Our tradition is war. And war, has brought us this." The Warmaster gestured toward the fragmented horizon, torn by broken knives and clouded with black clouds. The Commander simply lowered his head as this was said, before he looked back up: "But the war is over. And now, we come to make peace." The air was quickly replaced by silence as this was said, as the Warmaster placed his arms behind his back and slowly descended the marble steps. He approached the Commander in a way that seemed to be nothing more than an attempt to intimidate him. Perhaps he felt the need to show this sort of bravery to the troops he led, or perhaps it was a genuine attempt to make the Commander shrink. What it was meant to be, the Lykos could not tell. As the Warmaster stopped, he stood only three yul's away from the Commander. A silence. "Peace?" The Warmaster scoffed, "Peace is not a tool of the Lykos." "Must you mock me?" The Commander replied. "I mock you not. I state simply what we were told to believe." "We both know that voices can lie." The Warmaster stopped, as he tilted his head to one side: "Where were you taught this?" The Commander stared the Warmaster in the eyes: "I do not need to be taught what I feel. Thus is a subject where tyrants reign." The Warmaster scoffed yet again, as the Lykos began to move again. He started to circle the Commander, analysing his features from his bronze armour to the torn fur cloak he wore. The sensation of the Warmaster's gaze was akin to thar of a pin pricking under the armour. It seemed to dissect the Commander while alive and conscious, pulling from him the things he would otherwise keep secret. As the Warmaster approached the left shoulder of the Commander, he spoke yet again: "And who was this tyrant?" "Our Ultra Director." The Commander replied. Saying such a thing felt the same as plunging daggers into himself. It betrayed the essence and the duty he had known for the years he has been alive. It betrayed the very thing he has be taught, and the very thing he has sworn to teach. The Commander could almost feel his army shrink as he said this, judging what he has said. Did they trust him any longer? Did that matter? "Your Ultra Director. I do not believe you have yet denied this ownership." There was a mocking laugh that sounded from the Warmaster's army, seemingly feeding the Warmaster the praise he needed. "He is long dead." "Three days." "Know you who has slain him?" The Warmaster passed around the Commander's right shoulder, "I know not." "But still, he is dead?" "Aj." The Warmaster replied, as he stopped, "The course of this war has no direction, unless you or the other Scattered wish to take charge of this dying capital." "I know not of the others, but for myself." The Commander replied, as he watched the Warmaster turn to face him once more, "I cast my blade to thee." "Then stand you humbler than most." The Commander perked up when he heard this, as he locked eyes once more with the Warmaster. The Warmaster then seemed to smile, before he looked back to the crowd of red-armoured Lykos as he called one in particular forward. The Lykos obeyed as she stepped forward, carrying a shape that the Commander had grown all too familiar with in its hands. It was almost terrifying to see the object, as it always rested powerfully on the one whom he respected and feared the most at one point. It was the Ultra Director's helmet. The representatives who were shaped as Matoran, Toa, Steltian and Vortixx watched on in confusion as the Lykos eventually came to a halt. To them it seemed to be a trophy, a relic meant to be kept as a symbol of their victory. They weren't sure why the Warmaster would call it forward, to be brought to the force that had stood in opposition to them for so long. The Commander however knew perfectly well the reason it would be called forward. The Warmaster gestured the Lykos in his command to drop the Ultra Director's helmet, as she did so in a heartbeat. It landed with a mighty thud to the marble floor beneath their feet, as dust and soot were unsettled and blew away. The crowd of Unity and Republic soldiers stood quietly, watching idly as they waited for that decisive moment that seemed to be in the hands in the Commander. "When the Red Flags of Soyedmevos last overthrew a tyranny, it was the Lykos Empire." The Warmaster spoke, "For peace to be declared to the scattered Empire forces, Soyedmevos required the Grand General to do but one thing before negotiations could settle. Remember what that was?" The Commander lowered his head, as he removed his plasma blade from his utility belt. A few of the Red Flag Lykos stood at the ready, keeping their aim on the Commander as he activated his orange plasma blade. The Warmaster watched on, anticipating the Commander's moves, but stood his ground nonetheless. The orange plasma cackled, as the Commander raised the blade into the air. And then thrust down. In the blink of a visual receptor, the plasma blade broke and crackled though the base of the Ultra Director's helmet, the superheated projection burning away at the protosteel that provided its protection and the ornaments that decorated its incredible design. Standing for but a moment as the plasma finally broke the protective shell and burned through, the Commander stood with all his concentration on the helmet he was cutting. Eventually, the Commander withdrew his plasma blade and deactivated the weapon. The Warmaster emitted a low laugh, "I fear, for whatever sanctity and promise you shall make next." The Commander looked up once more to the Warmaster, as he placed his plasma blade on his utility belt once more. The Commander looked confused for but a moment, before the Warmaster spoke once more: "Come then, Commander Derimis. Prove to me and Unity, you are worth a vow." Derimis looked ahead toward the Supercapitol, and watched as the Warmaster stepped forward to join the other species as he headed toward the entrance. The lone Commander looked down to the helmet of the Ultra Director that he broke, pitying in a way the broken shape of that he vowed to protect. After a moment, Derimis stepped forward, lifting his mighty foot over the helmet as he continued up the steps. To the place, he would forge the next, Vow. ---- A Settlement, Unknown Island... Five years after War's end... “Take cover!” A bright green flash of energy corrupted the visual receptors of those who were too close to it, leaving many of the defender’s confused and blind. A horrible sound of an explosion erupted over the defender’s audio receptors, one which was quickly followed by the screams and yells of agony and pain. One Matoran dropped his weapon: a Zamor launcher, which quickly hit the ground as he lifted his hands to his head to block out the ringing in his audio receptors. The Matoran cried out loud, clearly upset by what just happened as he stumbled backwards, hitting the wall behind him. Pieces of the Matoran’s visual feed started to repair itself, as bits and pieces of a picture started to come together. The defensive line that the warriors of his settlement had conjured together was now nothing more than rubble and dust. Wounded bodies crawled away from where the explosion had blown away the wall, many of them missing arms or legs—having been eaten away completely by the superheated plasma. Among the wounded was the thing the Matoran had feared the most. The dead. The dead’s bodies were still being consumed by the green plasma fire that enveloped them, burning away not only their armour, but the mechanics and the organics within them. There was that rotten smell of burning organic material that managed to penetrate through the Matoran’s filter. His filter. The Matoran’s tiny hands quickly found themselves locked around the familiar shape that he had to wear every day, checking for the tiniest of breaches or damages. Without the filter, the Matoran was as good as dead within a minute. Death by plasma fire or explosion was far more merciful than death by asphyxiation. After the Timeless Siege, the plasma of the many Burns the Lykos created and the battles they raged eventually built up and damaged the atmosphere of the World of an Endless Ocean. The landscape of every island, from the sands to the mountains were turned into toxic marshes or deserts, burning away the life that wasn’t resistant to its poisoning effects. “The Heretic’s Line is broken!” The Matoran could hear his enemy announce. Several streaks of plasma fire erupted from sources outside the Matoran’s field of view, as the wounded defenders were quickly struck dead. One basic instinct programmed into the Matoran’s processes ran through his mind: Run. Quickly removing himself from the wall he was pressed against, the Matoran fled from the scene as he turned around the hut he had his back pressed against not even moments before. Several familiar shapes of the many defenceless settlers entered the Matoran’s field of view, as they tried their best to flee as well. The one’s he had vowed to defend were now being driven from their homes, for perhaps the second or third time in their lives. It sickened the Matoran to know that even passed the Siege’s end, that they still couldn’t find the peace that they had sought for so long. There was another crack of a plasma rifle, as one of the settlers fell over with a burning hole in their torso. Their lights flickered as they hit the ground and twitched, the other settlers moving around the body as soon enough there was another staccato of gunfire that lead to a few more injuries and death among the ground. The Matoran turned around to spot the enemies that had been driving these people out of their homes, and had been slaughtering them like animals. His visual receptors widened, as his head tilted upward to gaze upon the imposing frame of his foe. A Lykos Kinsman. Trying to back away, the Matoran found his throat seized by the massive being as he was lifted into the air. Air was choked out of his lungs, seemingly ignoring the purpose of the mask and filter he had attached to his Kanohi. The Matoran kicked with his little legs as he found his hands trying to pry himself away from the vice-like grip of the Lykos. He wasn’t even a fourth the size of his enemy, as the Lykos stared directly into his fearful eyes—reading him almost like a book. And then the Lykos laughed. The damned thing laughed, insulting the Matoran it had caught like a Stone Rat caught in the grasp of a Visorak. Then, it spoke: “Have you no honour? Fleeing the battle, you had taken up, defender?” “Y-you speak about honour?!” The Matoran choked, “The Siege is over! You’ve lost!” “I never put down my weapons, filth!” The Lykos retorted, its words freezing the Matoran’s hope like ice: “This blade, continues the oath I have made!” About to speak, the Matoran was thrown against the ground like a useless cloth before he felt his chest stomped on by the heavy boot of the Lykos. Feeling his internals crush, the Matoran let out a painful breath before in full-view he witnessed the activation of the plasma bayonet. Squirming in a pointless attempt to break free, the Matoran cried out loud in agony as the bayonet pierced his throat and burned away at the valuable internals stored there. It took only but a moment, before the Matoran fell dead. Removing its plasma bayonet from the dead body of the Matoran, the Lykos Kinsman lifted its rifle into the air as it shouted a cheer of victory. The other Lykos scoured the site, continuing to exterminate any trespasser that dared to violate the land which they claimed. Finding nothing left but bodies and rubble, they too joined into the loud cheer of victory. Looking down to the dead body of the defender that dared speak against him, the Lykos scoffed quietly. He mused to himself the death of the Matoran, finding the effect of it almost morbidly satisfying. This death was nothing more than a tally marked in for his Warrior’s Legacy, and another step along the Road of Life for him. “Where do the others flee?” A voice asked from behind him. The Lykos quickly turned on a heel to a fellow warrior, as he glanced back briefly in a way to suggest the direction the settlers fled. “But only that way.” He responded, “There is no other place for them to flee. And without a station to recharge their filters, they are as good as dead in the Burn.” “Very well.” The voice replied, “The Warmaster will be pleased.” “Lo, he joins us!” The Lykos replied, as his fellow Kinsman shifted his attention toward the being who stepped into the centre of the settlement. The other Kinsman bowed their heads in respect, falling to one knee before they placed a fist over their heart: a sign of the upmost respect in the Lykos culture. The Lykos followed the other warrior’s lead, as he turned his head down to the ground to avert his eyes from his Warmaster. He didn’t need to gaze upon the Warmaster to know what the grander Lykos should look like: the ghostly white armour and the blackish cape he wore. The Warmaster seemed to stand a head above the other Kinsman that followed his orders, held up high for the might and power he knew he had. Eventually, the Warmaster came to a halt as he peered around the group of followers he had collected, witnessing the chaos and destruction they had brought to the settlement. “So, they flee?” The Warmaster simply said. “Aj, o wise Kvokdka!” All the Lykos seemed to say in unison. Turning his head upward, the Warmaster Kvokdka witnessed the trail that the survivors of the raid had left as he hummed to himself. Ever since the ‘end’ of the Timeless Siege, it was supposed by the other species that the Lykos’ righteous campaign to cleanse the world of their filthy presence would be ended. Kvokdka despised even the thought of this, finding it foolish to believe that they would be spared their trespasses against the Lykos Kinsman. The others might have been foolish enough to suppose that Polemistis’ death should reign that their duty to their people be dead, or even traitorous enough to believe that now they should submit to peace on the accord of the other species. But not him. Kvokdka would burn this world until the presence of villainy and scum would be destroyed completely. His promise to his people was their ensured dominance of the More, the Land and the Flyot. He would not submit to fraudulent schemes meant to protect the peoples that have done his wrong. He refused to abandon his title, to forsake his honour and reward. This was his, Vow. ---- "How many died?" The voice was answered by the low tone of blades cutting through the air. The specialised ventilation system fitted to bring the crew of the airship a bitter taste of breathable air. Blue lights projected overhead, casting themselves over the shapes of the few beings that stood around the holographic table. Lime green projections danced around the base of the table: a series of boxes surrounded by a barrier in the familiar shape of a village. A settlement. One of the beings shifted slightly, turning her head up toward the one who spoke before she sighed: "The entire village." "How many?" The voice pressed again. "Fifty-six." She submitted. A fist slammed into the holographic table, shattering the metal casing that surrounded the corners and edges as the three other beings jumped in shock: yet remained silent. The first voice pulled away from the table before he started to circle around the room, his footsteps filling the silence and the sound of cutting blades. The being sighed, "Three villages in under an orbit! An orbit! How many died?! One-hundred and eighty-five! And where have we been?! Picking up the ashes of the last village!" "Derimis..." "Silence, Alyus!" Derimis cursed again, stopping a yul away from the shape. His mandibles clicked, before he shook his head and sighed. He muttered, "I... I apologise, sister. I shouldn't have." "It is fine, Derimis." Alyus replied, "We understand... it is stressful for us as well." "How has Kvokdka been able to attack so many villages in so little time?" Derimis wondered out loud, "The brute before could only manage attacks like these once every sequence! Limited in both scale and ferocity! We've had the time to interfere before... but now?" "The other villages are starting to lose faith in our abilities, Derimis." Another Lykos crew member grunted, "If it wasn't bad before, it is worse now..." "Verje and Olon have disconnected their transceivers..." A forth muttered, "more will follow." Derimis almost froze immediately before he turned his head back to the three other Lykos that accompanied him. They stared back directly at their Commander, their expressions seemingly undistinguishable. But Derimis knew them long enough to know that whenever they did not show him anything, it was when they doubted. Derimis had long forbade the title of Commander of the Republic, a part of his oath in the negotiation efforts with the Unity. Where he tore his own cloak: a collection of pelts and furs claimed from his Hunts... and separated the bits to those who he had surrendered to. Into the hands of a Lykos, a Steltian, a Toa, a Vortixx and of a few others... he broke it into seven fragments. He agreed to submit his duty to the protection of the Unity from zealots like Kvokdka, those who would dare to interfere with villages and settlements to continue their crusade against what was once viewed as unclean. He thought he would have to do it alone, before they joined him. A collection of Lykos from a series of different Paketos, who forbade their ranks and their assignments in the Republic to join Derimis. They all approached him in the same fashion: surrendering whatever cloak they had to the once-Commander. They vowed to serve as he would serve, to repent of their sins. Derimis took these cloaks and cast them into a fire, and they all stood by to watch them burn. All thirty-four of them. Those who did not have names took them up, given them by their brothers and sisters. They turned their heads to Derimis—for approval—the tradition of their forefathers. He nodded his head, whether the Nameless dared to take the name of the Nobles or not. They were to him, more than subordinates. More than subjects of his command. They were an army of the righteous seeking to do justice, where they once reigned in villainy. They were family. All flying aboard the wings of a Sparrow. "If they follow, then they fall..." Derimis replied, before he turned his head back to his brothers and sisters. "what is our approach? How close are we to Verje or Olon?" "Verje is a megayul from where we stand, Derimis." Alyus replied, her hands tapping along the holographic table, "Shall we set a course?" "Aj, we shall. Warn the others, and gather them to the bridge. We shall discuss our plans there... I have the distinct feeling, we are not the only ones headed there." "As you command, brother." Summary The following was revealed in a Discord DM between FireDrag1091 and ToaGonel. It has been reprinted here for your convenience. Derimis and his group would travel to Verje, in an attempt to warn the village only to find that the natives do not want their assistance. Warning them of the incoming Lykos threat posed by Kvokdka, Derimis stresses the need for Verje to cooperate with them if they wanted to survive. The village ignores this, and chases the group out only to be seized by Kvokdka a day later. In an attempt to prevent the massacre, Derimis engages and loses a handful for his 32 troops and a tank. In the meanwhile, Aeovis from the end of One Final Effort is traveling to Olon via the sloop he was given. Beaching after a dangerous storm, the Lykos travels to the village in vain hopes of being assisted. Finding the native population of Matoran, Vortixx and Skakdi—Aeovis is captured and enslaved in a trade given the 'damages his people caused'. Essentially he inspires an uprising with his fellow Lykos and attempts to flee the scene before Derimis steps in, thinking the previously enslaved Lykos to be a member of Kvokdka's radical group. Aeovis explains his intentions, informing Derimis that the population had been keeping slaves to which the Commander confronts Olon's council. The council presses their position that the Lykos are to repay them for the crimes they committed during the war, even if that meant execution. Painfully disregarding this issue, Derimis presses Olon to cooperate in their fight against Kvokdka. Olon declines their request, and states should Derimis ever return: they will kill him. Derimis and his crew, tired of their lack of success decide that they are going to stay in Olon anyways, and fight back Kvokdka, given their promise and vow. Aeovos who argued before to leave sees this determination and finds this inspiring: in a world now laced with treachery, there is still honour. Essentially Derimis and Kvokdka, being two of the greatest leaders in the days of the Republic have a strategic battle between Derimis' small and very ill-prepared group and Kvokdka's army. This battle leads to countless casualties, but Derimis' careful planning and his family-like group (given their size, he knows all of them and are thus a family) fight harder and much more honourably than Kvokdka. Olon is levelled in the battle with several innocent casualties, but survives. In Kvokdka's attempt to retreat, a mysterious third party intervenes and grounds Kvokdka's massive airship (Hawk) and damages Derimis' smaller one (Sparrow) (These airships are essentially flying bases, but Sparrows are less armed, smaller though quicker than Hawks) Third party is revealed to be Machitis and his Red Flag group, operating a fleet of airships. That's all I had really planned for it, as the ending is pretty underdeveloped thus far. Story Notes The following was explained by FireDrag1091 in a Discord server. It has been reprinted here for your convenience. The thing with my CBW short story is that I have it all planned out. Down to key dialogue. I've just been preoccupied with other projects and my work. The ending was going to be pretty decent. Build up hope for the protagonists, Only to crush it at the end. But that is cliche story arc #2 Wasn't really angsty, It was meant to be more of a commentary on relations between peoples and ideas. The expectations, are not the reality. Sure, there was going to be tragic stuff. Well, 'Tragic' is loose Because it is subjective, But it was dealing with issues that are heavily controversial even today But that is the same me that was hoping to make something more than just plain entertainment. Which is, a fruitless goal for most.Category:V Osade Alternate Universe